Compelling Evidence by Steve Martini Page A

lost in this glow of routual infatuation, somehow feeds a primeval yearning within roe. I stand here mired in this quicksand of social discomfort. Silence spawns a crusade for small talk‐Talia's latest real estate venture, Tod's tennis exploits. Talia has pushed the conversation to the domestic side, asking about Sarah. She chides me twfil I reach for my wallet and pictures. I'm saved by Florence, Tony's secretary, who has come to retrieve me for the meeting. Florence Thom is a tall, stately woman on whom social pleasantries appear a lost ad.
    She's all business. "Mr. Madriani, if you'll follow me. They're waiting for you."

    The acid begins to churn in my stomach when I hear the plural pronoun.
    Skarpellos is ganging up on me. Tod looks at me and smiles. "Nice to have met you." For a)) of his looks there is a disarming sincerity, a kind of country honesty under the polished virility. Talia could have dow worse, I conclude.. Tony's secretary sets a brisk pace down'the hall. We turn the comer and there‐it hits me like an iced dagger. For a moment I beak stride, stating in silence at the walnut‐paneled double doors kading to Ben's office. One of them is open. Police tape, a'single bond of canary yellow with busy black lettering, clings to the pneling near the door frame. The secretarial station across from Ben's office is vacant and 4Wk. Jo Ann, Ben's secretary, is not in. And then it strikes me. Sk was not at the funeral either. For as long as I had known, Ben, was a fixture, always at his elbow. "Where's Jo Ann?" I ask. "Oh‐Mrs.
    Campanelli is no longer with us." She offers nothmore than a pleasant smile. That's it‐fifteen years with the and Jo Ann's epitaph is covered in four words, "no longer us. nee taps lightly on the rich black walnut.
    "Me door to the ous comer office is opened from the inside. Tony Skarpellos from behind an immense Pedestal desk, its base formed from redwood burl. Tony's waste basket is the hollowed foot elephant. A seamless horn of ivory is mounted on the wall the window. In this, as in so many other ways, the Greek is ss. To Tony social disfavor is a badge of honor. He would Bambi to the wall if Disney would sell him rights.
    come in," he says. "Please come in."

    "Tony." I greet him, not warmly, merely a statement of The surface of his desk is a slab of polished black picks up the reflection of Tony's mendacious ste‐ Th., I traverse yards of carpeted expanse, taupe in c lor, d sand on a dry beach. He extends his hand. I give it a quick shake. Then hear the catch on the door as it closes. I turn to find Ron re standi4 there‐playing doorman. This is not a warn@e retony clears his throat. Left with no recourse, he Ou honors. "Ron, I think you know Paul Madrian@. Brown glides across the room like a purebred Arabi skimming the sand. "Sure. Paul and I are old friends. It to see you again." He thrusts his hand in my direction spring‐1oaded and pumps my arm like the handle n all jack. Brown excels in such settings. Tods s p, a) enthusiastic corporate lackey‐all teeth, beaming from a meager pencil mustache. On first blush, Ronald Simpson Brown is a difficult dislike.
    He's personable and outwardly affable. Like metal, his oppressive insecurity doesn't become ap stress is applied. During my stint at Potter, Skarpellos,11 and I discovered out mutual coefficient of friction at stage. From that point we maintained our distance. "I've asked Ron to join us here this afternoon. Please.,' seat."

    Tony smiles and gives a broad gesture ton f@d thclient chairs situated in front of the vast rock ol aps. I cushioned nothingness and wait for the reve ation I've been summoned. "Some coffee, Paul?"

    "No, thanks:' The empty cup situated at the edge of desk in front of Brown indicates that whatever Skarpe say will come as no surprise to Brown. The two have for some time before my arrival, Brown bpens his leather n6tebook and removes the re ia ar Is of bla'.c from his fountain pen‐three hundred ddliars of